


Clamor

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Character Study, FFxivWrite2020, Gen, Human Experimentation, Mental Illness, Schizophrenia, The Resonant (Final Fantasy XIV), implied medical trauma, one line of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26369572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: They sit him outside for the purpose of acclimating his new aethers to the big, wide world. They also underestimated just how dreadful the cacophony of said aethers would be to a newborn Resonant.Written for prompt 8 of FFXIVwrite2020.
Kudos: 2
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	Clamor

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Lucius's canon backstory.

Lucius sits alone, motionless, poised. Aulus had thought it wise to let him outside for a bit to grow accustomed to his new aethers and how they interacted with the world, drugged and suited to prevent immediate overstimulation. He’s under heavy guard of course, with sixteen snipers watching him from afar with tranquilizer darts at the ready should he decide to run. Or shoot. Or perform one of the many, many unwanted behaviours Aulus fears will end in absolute catastrophe. The data supports it, after all. And his memory of Lucius beaning him in the head with a solid iron desk.

He so hates to call a still-living subject a failure, but the glassy-eyed boy sitting perfectly still as sandy winds lash at his bare face is a far cry from success. Zenos doesn’t yet know just how abysmal his condition is, and Aulus would much like to keep it that way. Aulus, after all, has seen the data. Pages and pages of it, graphs and charts and waveforms all pointing towards an unstable body and a broken mind. Lucius can still speak and think and move, but erratically at best and going catatonic for aught else. In a way, this too is a test. Lucius only has a week left in Ala Mhigo to prove himself functional before he’s discharged, lobotomized or shot.

Not that Lucius has any clue what’s going to happen to him. He sits staring at the far wall of the rehab courtyard, a dry and lonely prison of orange-yellow stone. He does not think about himself – he has no room to, when his newly awakened senses are filling his mind with things he’s never considered before, signals he has no clue how to interpret. The only thing keeping him from screaming and clawing at himself to _make it stop_ is the aetherproof skinsuit worn under his armour, which he’s been dressed up in for the sake of outside appearances. The collar around his throat seals it all off preventing his raw, ravenous Resonance from reaching out and gorging itself on aether until his blood vessels burst. Even now it picks up the searing wind and every fine grain of sand scratching his skin – he blinks just a second before anything can get in his eyes. He’s under the strongest suppression the Resonatorium could fashion for him and he _still_ feels it all. The precise volume of salt carried in every particle of moisture, the atmospheric pressure surrounding him. The green swirls of every single air current dancing around him in surging patterns as he breathes, mesmerized. His eyes do not move to track them. It is a glorious cacophony of sight beyond sight assaulting his every sense and all he can do is sit there.

For a mercy, he does not register the heat. It’s forty-five degrees and absolutely sweltering, but Lucius does not care. Sweat pours down his colourless face and wicks away in the blistering wind, while his parted lips tingle as dry cracks form only to heal over again. His feathery white lashes lower a touch. The clouds move an ilm to the left and a sharp sunbeam shines into his face as if pointedly trying to blind him. He closes his eyes. It feels _wonderful_.

He does not hear the voices for now. They usually come when he is focussed inwards, thinking his own thoughts and trying to come to terms with his new self. They tell him he is weak, they are scared; sometimes it’s a symphony of cats meowing and only the bliss of unconsciousness will shut them up. It is hell. There are ten of them, he thinks, able to discern at least three of the voices from each other. One is a Roegadyn with a low, quivering voice, a craven sorcerer who fled conscription in one of the provinces only to be captured and imprisoned for life. Another is a stern, older Au’ri man of Hingashi, one of the white-horned Raen owned by a powerful family he yearned to escape. Even though they don’t speak the same language, Lucius can still understand him. He doesn’t know what tongue he thinks in any more. His Resonance reads the meaning behind every word spoken and translates it on a level beyond mere speech. A feature, Aulus had said, and one that was working as intended. A shame it did not extend to writing. There are a few other Au’ra Lucius has heard speaking to him – not by how they introduced themselves, but with a sense of knowing he could not explain. There’s a Miqo’te too, around the same age as him and terribly curious about life as a Garlean. He gave no name, only saying that he looked forward to Lucius’s adventures in the Empire and would do his best to help him succeed. The other Mi’qote merely cried and yowled in response.

Lucius considers them, wonders where they came from. All of them had some sort of magical ability and had fallen into the Empire’s hands, one way or another. According to Aulus he had been infused with the aether of several talented mages, but that aether surely had to come from somewhere. Evidently, he hadn’t considered the lingering of all those souls who were prevented from entering the lifestream due to the methods in which their aethers were harvested. Lucius now harbored the distilled essence of ten people slaughtered for the Resonance Project, and if Aulus was to be believed, their souls would eventually blend with his own.

 _‘Yes, that’s right. You’re never going to be your own person as long as you have us, and there’s no way you can extract our aethers without killing yourself. Wouldn’t that be wonderful to try?’_ One of the Au’ra whispers to him sweetly, in a suave suggestion of eternal peace. Lucius pays heed, and the moment he does, the others join in.

_‘D-don’t, I don’t want to die, please don’t.’_

_‘Meeeeeeeeeeeeeowwww~’_

_‘I want food. You do too, right? Can we go? Go get something to eat?’_

_‘If we’re eating, I want noodles. With sliced dzo.’_

Lucius’s shoulders stiffen. He has no choice but to listen to the voices quarrel, almost immediately wishing the winds would change so he had something else to focus on. The moment he considers it, the wind changes direction and blasts against the back of his head, fluffing his hair in the wrong direction. He hates it, and dips his head. The voices fade away.

_‘What… am I supposed to do?’_

Dimly aware of where he is, he stares at the ground. The pounded sand shifts minutely as tiny grains settle upon it and are whisked away moments later. He’s a soldier, he should be training. He’s exhausted, in pain. He can’t remember anything and trying to think will alert the voices to come and offer their two cents – it won’t help him call up even the most recent of memories. Concentrating hard enough, he can remember his name, his Legion, and his homeland. Everything else is so deeply conditioned that he can’t really think of it at all, but when the time comes for him to salute, march or go through the motions of drill, it happens. He’s a good soldier. A good, loyal son of Garlemald.

Why doesn’t he know who he is?

**Author's Note:**

> Lucius's subordinates and brothers in arms are supposed to have come to visit him and see what's up, realizing that he's mentally broken and having a big ole angst fest - but I'm too exhausted to write it. That's how it goes, though.


End file.
